


Marked

by kronette



Series: Christmas Triad [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: Second of my trio of stories, set after the finale of season 3.Will hadn’t expected them to live.





	Marked

It was a disconcerting thing, to be alive.

Will had reacted on instinct, but not the instinct that had been drilled into him for most of his career. No, this instinct was primal, from the part of him that reveled at the sight of Hannibal turning his head away as Will’s gun inched closer, all those years ago. 

From the part of him that wanted to watch Dolarhyde transform Hannibal. 

If that had been the outcome, Will might have been able to live with himself afterward, both killers dead at his feet. If Will had been successful in killing Dolarhyde first, he still wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t have killed Hannibal himself. 

Hannibal had framed him, manipulated his enflamed mind, killed Abigail, killed Beverly, sawed into his skull and had him shot. Hannibal had challenged him and elevated him and freed him, not only from prison and Muskrat Farm, but from his own ideas of morality. 

Will had lived in a constructed life for three years, pretending to be alive, pretending to be happy. Pretending that his connection with Hannibal had been a fabrication all along, that Hannibal had known about his illness since their first meeting and had been manipulating him ever since.

A lie he told himself, because the truth was too painful to bring into the light. Hannibal was his friend. Hannibal was a sadistic, cannibalistic serial killer. Will had spent the months after his release from the hospital and his time at Lecter Estate contemplating what that said about him. 

With their combined attack on Dolarhyde, everything had been stripped away—morality, society, laws. It was raw and visceral and the rush of power had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. 

Will hadn’t expected them to live. He hadn’t expected Hannibal to survive the gunshot wound and the infection that had set in. He hadn’t expected them to make it to upstate New York and the cabin Will had purchased with cash from the sale of his Wolf Trap house and visited without Molly’s knowledge. 

He hadn’t expected the numbness that settled over him at the thought of Hannibal dead, or the lack of concern if he was caught. He’d used Hannibal’s compassion against him in Florence, not with the intent to turn him in, but to finally be allowed to offer Hannibal his forgiveness. 

The metal was warm in his hand, the blade turning over and over as Will watched Hannibal sleep. It was his own pocketknife, the balance and weight he knew intimately. Will’s gaze slipped to the gently rising and falling chest, marking the place between the third and fourth rib as he turned the knife again. Hannibal’s wound was exposed to the air now that the infection had cleared, an ugly, pocked mark to match the ones on Will’s shoulder. 

Scars adorned Hannibal’s expanse of skin, marks that didn’t bear Will’s hand in their making. Only those along Hannibal’s inner wrist, carved by proxy and not the least bit satisfying. 

Hannibal had been right about another thing: intimacy was necessary when facing a worthy opponent. 

Hannibal had been careless to drop his guard as the weeks went on and their survival remained unknown to the world. He’d accepted the pills Will had given him that night without comment, though as a physician, Hannibal had to know one of them was a mild sedative. Hannibal either trusted him or didn’t expect Will to move against him. 

Getting a knee onto the bed, Will straddled Hannibal’s thighs and quickly brought Hannibal’s wrists together above his head, holding them in place as he laid the flat of the blade against Hannibal’s throat.

The swallow and fluttering of eyelids preceded Hannibal’s weak struggle, but Will pressed all his weight onto Hannibal’s wrists, feeling the bones creak in his hand. “Lie still,” he instructed, drawing the blade along Hannibal’s skin. 

Hannibal obeyed, but Will knew it was only to see what he would do, not out of any sense of self-preservation. Annoyance flitted through him but he dismissed it easily, not wanting anything to distract him. “I owe you a reckoning. Killing Dolarhyde together doesn’t negate the past,” he answered the little twitch at the side of Hannibal’s mouth, able to read his minute expressions after such careful study over the years. “I am marked by you, inside and out. I bear the scars of your compassion where others can see and you can admire. All I have are _these_ ,” Will squeezed Hannibal’s wrists, “and they’re _not enough_.” 

He leaned down until his body rested on Hannibal’s, the warmth and strength coiled beneath him like a waiting snake about to strike. This close, he could smell the bite of ointment underneath the unkempt stubble on Hannibal’s cheeks, see the pupils widened in anticipation. 

Will’s breathing was unsteady, the tight hold he’d kept on his emotions slipping with each passing second. He pressed the tip of the knife into the skin below Hannibal’s collarbone and gently drew it about an inch, the scent of blood hitting his nostrils a second later. “I wanted to wait until you were healed. I didn’t want to risk killing you.” He shifted position, arching his back just enough to move his hand down to Hannibal’s chest, tracing the knife along a rib, feeling Hannibal’s hitch of breath as he broke skin. 

He knew Hannibal’s pain threshold was immense, having seen the brand on Hannibal’s back and witnessing his stoic acceptance of the wounds inflicted by Dolarhyde, so that flinch wasn’t from pain. 

“My initial thought was to bury this in your gut, cut open the wound Dolarhyde gave you and peel back the layers,” he admitted, guided by the excitement that flared to life in Hannibal’s gaze. He left the knife on the bed, placing his palm on Hannibal’s side and smearing the blood up to his armpit, up the muscled arm until he could take both of Hannibal’s hands in his and slot their fingers together. 

“I understand,” he whispered, lowering his mouth until their lips brushed. “I wanted to make you suffer for what I suffered. I wanted to watch the life drain slowly from you, leaving your lifeless shell for Jack to find and Freddie to massacre your name and reputation in death.” 

“Will…” Hannibal breathed, lips barely moving where they touched, though Will felt the vibrations deep in his chest.

“My name the last thing on your lips. Your last thoughts filled with me,” Will said with a hint of triumph, but his thoughts were scattering as his needs were beginning to take over. Months of self-reflection, agonizing, accepting, all coalescing in this moment. “I forgive you, Hannibal.” 

He lowered his head, kissing Hannibal properly and half expecting the heavens to open up and strike them dead. Only the gentle feel of trembling lips moving against his, the quick dart of a tongue tip, and then the dizzying sensation of freefall again as Will gave himself over to the kiss, relaxing as Hannibal’s arms came around him. 

He held the back of Hannibal’s head as he poured his frustration and fear into the kiss, his longing and denial, and finally, his affection—as much as he dared. He couldn’t give all of himself, not yet. 

“My thoughts are your thoughts,” Hannibal uttered between deep, breath-stealing kisses. “Your name the last thing on my lips before I sleep.” 

“I’m not letting you sleep,” Will growled, surprised at his own gruff tone. “Can I fuck you?” he asked, surprising them both. Hannibal’s pupils were blown wide and Will felt Hannibal’s hardness rub against his thigh as Hannibal shifted his legs, allowing Will to settle between them. 

Will’s jaw went slack. _Heat_. The heat and proof of Hannibal’s _humanness_ pressing against him was overwhelming. Tangible evidence beyond steel blades and metaphorical words of Hannibal’s compassion for him. That the monster remained a man, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

The glow of affection shone brightly from Hannibal’s gaze, an unexpected supernova between two dark souls. “My body is strong enough,” Hannibal replied, Will hearing what wasn’t said. 

Will ghosted his lips along the sharp cheekbone, promising, “You won’t break, Hannibal. You’ve bowed and bent, but never broken. Neither have I.” 

Hannibal’s voice was almost shaking as he admitted, “You have that power over me, Will.” 

Will brushed his lips down to Hannibal’s mouth, slicking his tongue along the lower lip before dipping inside for a quick kiss that Hannibal extended for long minutes. “It’s an honor I hold in the highest regard,” he replied when he could speak again. “You know all my secrets, Hannibal. I’m laid bare before you, a willing sacrifice.” 

“Never,” Hannibal hissed, grabbing Will’s head and punishing him with a bruising kiss. “Never my sacrifice. At my side, always. I’ve known many who wished to be seen by me, but none were worthy. Not until you. There will be no one after you.” 

Will couldn’t help it; it was far too much, too soon and he had to poke the bear or else risk losing himself completely. “What was Bedelia?”

Fingers tightened in his hair, then relaxed. “A placeholder. A substitute until the one I wanted was ready.”

An unsatisfactory explanation, and Will determined that they would have a long talk about what should be done with Bedelia, but not now. Now, he wanted to claim what was rightfully his. “I’m ready, Hannibal, if you still want me.” As if there was a doubt, with the way he was being held and the softness of Hannibal’s expression. Will had a feeling that he looked just as stricken but no longer cared. He had no intention of hiding, ever again. 

His answer came in the form of a kiss, and hands pulling off his shirt and undoing his belt. Will’s body wasn’t fully healed either, and their enthusiasm was tempered by careful movements until they were settled on their sides, Will behind Hannibal. 

Exquisite wasn’t a word Will had ever associated with sex, but he had never allowed himself to drop all his walls before. To let himself fully imagine and experience what his partner would be feeling. Knowing Hannibal as intimately as he did, this form of intimacy was almost too much, but he dug his fingers into Hannibal’s shoulder to ground himself. With Hannibal’s heartbeat against his forearm, holding their bodies as tightly together as he could and still move his hips, their climb was gentle and slow, savoring every touch, every point of connection, every breath. And when Will tipped over the edge, he panted his pleasure into Hannibal’s shoulder, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he became Hannibal, overwhelmed with an experience he never thought he’d get to have. 

“I’m sorry,” Will murmured, placing a kiss at the base of Hannibal’s nape. Hannibal’s hand covered his and Will knew he was understood. 

Will carefully rolled Hannibal onto his back, reverently kissing the mirrored trail of tears from his cheeks. A slow, steady tease brought Hannibal to his climax, Will unable to relinquish his mouth now that he’d given himself permission to indulge his affections. 

“Stay,” Hannibal said softly after they had both dozed off at different times, unwilling to stop touching each other. 

“I’ll move my things in here tomorrow,” Will answered with a yawn, curling his arm around Hannibal’s chest and shivering as Hannibal’s arm draped over his shoulder, pulling him close. He knew that wasn’t what Hannibal meant, but he was too exhausted to play mind games. His body was loose and relaxed, his mind was quieted, and he was warm and sated. “Sleep,” he ordered softly, rubbing his temple against Hannibal’s shoulder. 

A contented sigh drifted over his head, following him into sleep.

The End


End file.
